


A Game For Drones

by Saiyangirl692



Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Knight Pam, Knight Ray, Knights - Freeform, Maester Krieger, Prince Barry, Prince Sterling, Princes & Princesses, Princess Lana - Freeform, Queen Malory, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-07-29 11:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20081224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saiyangirl692/pseuds/Saiyangirl692
Summary: When war descends, the world will turn to ash.  Quite like his heart, when he gives it away.**A Game of Thrones inspired work**





	1. Appendix of Characters

**Author's Note:**

> Some names have been changed to fit the setting. There are some minor original characters who will make sense throughout the work.

The Queen of Isperis

MALORY ARCHER, First of Her Name, Queen of Isperis and Warden of the North

    * her Prince Consort, LORD RONALD CADILAC

    * her son, PRINCE STERLING ARCHER, heir to the throne

      * his bastard son, SEAMUS MCGOON

    * her ward, LADY CHERYL TUNT, heir of Eidubh

Her Council:

    * MAESTER ALGERNOP KRIEGER

    * LORD RONALD CADILAC, Master of Coin, Hand to the Queen

    * LORD RICHARD STRATTON, Master of Ships

    * LORD BRYAN FORDNEY, Master of Laws

    * SER RAYMOND GILETTE, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard

    * LORD GUSTAVUS FELTCHLY , Master of Whispers

Her court and retainers:

    * LADY TRUDY BEAKMAN, Lady-in-Waiting to Queen Malory, a widow

    * LADY TRINETTE MCGOON of Verdhwen, Mother to Sterling's bastard son

    * LORD TRENT WHITNEY, Chancellor to the Prince

    * SER ARTHUR WOODHOUSE, Chamberlain to the Crown

    * LANCEL CASTAU, Butler to the Crown

    * CHET, Acolyte

    * RODNEY, the Master-of-Arms

    * BRETT BUNSEN, squire to the Prince

    * DANIEL, squire to the Prince

    * LUCAS TROYE, sellsword hired by the Prince

Her Queensguard:

    * SER RAYMOND GILETTE, Lord Commander, called the Golden Rider

    * SER PAMELA POOVEY

    * [SER RICHARD SLEDGE], late husband to Lady Cheryl, yet to be replaced

The King of Gerrod and Bartholemew

NIKOLAI JAKOV, Second of His Name, King of Gerrod and Bartholemew and Warden in the South

  * his sister, PRINCESS TAMITHA JAKOV

    * her son, PRINCE BARTHOLEMEW ALOYSIUS DILLON, heir to the throne

  * his ward, LADY FRAMBOISE BERI of Verdwhen

His council:

  * MAESTER BENJAMIN ATTA

  * LORD KENNETH HINKINS, Master of Coin

  * LORD GEORGE SPELVIN, Master of Ships

  * LORD LEONARD TREXLER, Master of Laws, Hand to the King

  * SER BORIS GERROD, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard

  * LADY RONA THORNE, Master of Whispers

His Court and Retainers:

  * LADY KATYA KAZANOVA of Oakheart, betrothed to Prince Bartholemew

  * LADY ANASTASIA TREXLER, wife to Leonard Trexler

  * JAVI ROJO, squire

  * CARLITO ROJO, squire

  * SIA ROJO, wife to Carlito and servant

His Kingsguard:

  * SER BORIS GERROD Lord Commander

  * SER ELKE HUBSCH of Woden

  * SER KREMENSKI CRENSHAW

The King of Califa

LEMUEL KANE, Third of His Name, King of Califa and Warden of the West

    * His wife, QUEEN CLAUDETTE KANE

their children:

      * PRINCE AYLWIN KANE, heir to the throne

      * PRINCESS ARLANA KANE

His Council:

  * MAESTER CHARLES SPELTZ

  * LORD BENOIT LE CHUFFRE, Master of Coin and Hand to the King

  * LORD CONWAY STERN, Master of Ships

  * LORD RICHARD WOODHOUSE, Master of Laws

  * SER CYRIL FIGGIS, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard

  * LORD DALTON HOLLEY, Master of Whispers

His Court and Retainers:

  * JANE, servant to Lana

  * LADY VERONICA DEANE, Lady-in-Waiting to Queen Claudette

His Kingsguard:

  * SER CYRIL FIGGIS, Lord Commander

  * SER CONWAY STERN

  * SER ELLIS CRANE

Small Houses

Calderon:

GUSTAVO CALDERON, First of His Name, King of Woden, known as the Usurper

    * his wife, QUEEN JULIANA CALDERON

    * his brother-in-law, PRINCE ROMAN CAZALDO, called the Prince of Pirates

Poovey:

SER PAMELA POOVEY, Lady of Casterfield

    * her sister, LADY EDITH POOVEY, called Edie

Gilette:

SER RAYMOND GILETTE, Lord Commander of the Queensguard

    * his brother, RANDALL GILETTE, called Randy

      * his wife, JANELLE GILETTE

Tunt:

CECIL TUNT, Lord of Eidubh

    * his wife, LADY TIFFANY TUNT called Tiffy

    * his sister, LADY CHERYL TUNT, Ward of Queen Malory


	2. Lana

Lana

The Royal Road stretched as far ahead as her eyes could see, flanked at either side by emerald fields littered with naked trees and grass blanketed in places by snow. There were no houses here, with Casterfeld at their back and the villages of Archport somewhere far ahead. Beyond the fields, mountains loomed high, their faces marred with cave mouths and abandoned mine shafts. Princess Arlana Kane shivered, and tightened her leather-clad hands on the reigns. She felt a mountain herself in her wool and furs, too used to the wisps of silk she wore in her own land of Califa. Her doublet was made of wool, dyed a deep purple and patterned on the left side with white specks in the shape of unicorn horns. Her white wool leggings were covered almost entirely by high leather riding boots, and a heavy snowy cloak rested around her shoulders. One clasp would not suffice to carry such weight, and so two twin unicorns, silver and prancing on hind legs, pinned it in place.

She missed the carriage in which she had travelled through Woden, sheltered from the cold and comfortable with her books, but so weighted was it in the flakes of gold, rubies and emeralds encrusted into mahogany, it was prone to a broken axle. A gnarled root in Forest Gerod had taken the wheel, and so it had been left behind to be repaired. Still, Windrush, her golden-haired courser, was quick enough.

“Castle Isis will be warmer,” Cyril said, drawing close on his jet black destrier, “It is said that it was built upon dragon's breath,”

She had heard those stories long ago, from the mouth of her wetnurse then echoed by her parents and her brother and even Maester Charles when the right mood hit him.

“And that the walls are warm with the blood of the long dead beasts,” said Lana, barely refraining from rolling her eyes.

It was not proper for a Princess, though she was lately finding that little was. Playing proper was the only reason she had ended up in this artic wasteland, on her way to meet the Prince that her father, King Lemuel had chosen for him. Prince Sterling, the Bastard of Isperis.

His name had been on tongues, great and not, on all four neighbouring Kingdoms and little of it good. If the smallfolk in Woden were to be believed, he was the son of Allium, God of Death, himself. The smallfolk of the Kingdom of Gerrod and Bartholemew believed that he had hidden a bastard in every brothel of the realm. Even in Ironhaven, his own lands, there were whispers that he was not Queen Malory's son at all, but a boy she had bought in the lands of Arcadia when she failed to produce an heir from her barren womb. Lana knew for truth that he had fathered one bastard boy, but the only reason he had claimed him was that he was born to Trinette McGoon.

“How far to Archport?” she asked Cyril.

Her sworn knight, given to her from her father's very own kingsguard, looked to the sun for answers.

“I'd say another hour, maybe two,” he answered, “Before nightfall at least,”

She wished more than anything to be off the road, and sink herself into a hot bath. And before that, she wanted to meet her Prince and see which story had the right of it.

Her party trailled the Royal Road at a slower pace than she would have liked. She forced Windrush, named so for the speeds she could reach, to stay at a steady trot, and Cyril rode beside her on his own brown mare. He was handsome enough, she supposed, if not a maiden's dream night. He wore no helm on this stretch of road, showing a mop of black hair and his eyes, so dark that they looked like flecks of obsidian in the light. His mouth was made for smiling, and his pale skin heralded across Califa that he had come from lands across the sea. The rest of his body was hidden beneath shining plate armour and boiled leathers, emblazoned across the chest with a roaring hound that served as his families chosen sigil, but she knew from watching him on the yard that beneath he was banded with muscle. He had been her constant companion on their trip and even before, and sometimes she wondered when he looked at her if he wanted something more than her friendship, but even if she had felt the same, a Princess of Califa could never be with a disgraced night of Eidubh.

Behind, Ser Conway led the rest of the party. He looked more like a fairytale night, tall and handsome. He too wore no helm, showing off his bald head, dotted with sweat despite the cold, and eyes the colour of honey, trained straight ahead. He was fearsome in his jet black armour, inlain with a flaming arrow of blood red, and atop his dark-haired destrier. The Princess had long thought him to have been more suited to Lord Commander, but none of his heroics or knighthoods erased his past as an Arcadian freesword, and his was a new house among the hundred ancient ones that held the power back home. Behind him, twenty green soldiers picked for the journey followed, and behind them was Maester Benoit on his mule, flanked by his acolyte Symin and Lana's own servant Jane.

Her father had wished to give her more men with more experience and skill, but while they warred with the usurper king of Woden, it was not possible, and so she had set off with her feeble party in tow.

At long last, the empty stretch of grass gave way into farming fields, then farmhouses, then the inns and houses of peasant villages. The mountains remained as an eternal backdrop, tipped with thick snows that she didn't dare consider. The journey didn't get much more interesting as they passed the peasants. Two children with stick swords caught her attention for a moment in one of the villages, then a drunken man yelling from the door of an inn worried her until Cyril put himself between them, a warning hand on the pommel of the sword he wore on his belt. Then, the city of Archport came into view and her breath was stolen.

The City of Archport was as spectacular as the bards and storytellers had told, a sprawl of houses embedded into the side of the highest of the mountains, increasing in grandeur as they increased in height. The city was crowned by the palace, where it was erected atop a large cliffside.

Even from a distance, Lana could see the glint of gold and the gleam of marble. Some of the windows were plain, others richly coloured and decorated with religious scenes or Isperis landscapes.

“It's no Crystal Palace,” Cyril said, referring to her home in Califa, “But it is grand all the same,”

Lana nodded, “Let's hope her owners are as welcoming,”

She pressed her heels into her horses' side, and Windrush flew.

She kept her speed until she reached the First Gate, then reigned back to let Cyril, Conway and the rest of her party fall in behind. They were exhausted after such a journey, but there was much to be done before any of them could retire.

She was surprised to find just one guard on the gate, but she supposed it would be expected of a city known for its peace. They gave no open resistance to the false King Gustavo Calderon, and had eventually made peace with King Nikolai and the Kingdom of Gerrod and Bartholemew. The lone guard flicked back his visor, and eyed Conway suspiciously before turning them on her. She said nothing, until Symin stepped forward to announce her.

“The Princess Arlana Kane, First of her Name, Daughter to King Lemuel and Second to the Throne of Califa,” he intoned, “Joined by Ser Cyril Figgis, Ser Conway Stern and the rest of her travel party,”

The guard took a last lingering look, bowed deep to her, then clacked the point of his sword against the iron bars. At his signal, two armed men pulled the gate inwards to let them pass, giving small bows of their own to the Princess. She let Cyril lead the party up a narrow alley that only fit one man ahorse, and Conway followed behind her. Here, the homes were no more than huts erected of woods. Those would house the servants and the horse grooms and everyone else below nobility allowed within the city gates. As the path went on, it widened, and the huts gave into houses, then manors, then palaces within a palace. Here lived the great Lords and anointed knights with their families. Again, she was surprised at the lack of security. She saw a soldier here or there, cloaked in light blue to show their part of the city watch, but there were no other gates until they reached the foot of the palace itself.

“The Golden Gate,” Cyril named it, beside her once more, and she could see why.

It was 12 foot of what appeared to be solid gold, more a portcullis than a true gate. Behind, Castle Isis loomed, taller and wider than it had looked at a distance. She could see the stained glass windows better from here – there was the River Archer, and there Forest Gerod. A flag flew from every battlement, a crowned lion sigil roaring from a navy blue background.

Two guards stood to attention as they approached, and she listened as Symin introduced her for the second time that day. They let her past, and a third guard reigned up to lead her party to a large courtyard of polished stone, surrounded on all sides by stone walls and glistening windows, and tunnelled portcullises that led to other parts and outreaches of the castle. There, the Queen herself waited with an entourage of knights and nobility.

She was old, silver-haired and wrinkled skinned, but she still held a beauty she would have ten years passed. Her hair was braided and wrapped to crown her hair, inlain with sapphires and opals on a net, and when the Queen's blue eyes looked at her, Lana felt like they could root out dark secrets that hadn't yet happened. She was dressed in dyed wool, dark blue embroidered with a hundred golden lion's heads.

Princess Arlana Kane might have had the grace to blush beside the Queen, while she stood in her mud and sweat-stained riding wools and leather boots, but the long journey and frigid North had tired her beyond care. Instead, she strode forward and offered a curtsey before she took in the rest of the crowd. Her Maester stood to her left, dressed in the same dagged-sleeved, gray cotton robe that every other Maester of the realm chose to wear, though he wore a golden lion pin to show his allegience as her Maester Benoit wore the silver unicorn. To her right, a young maid with auburn hair looked like she would rather be anywhere else in the world. The pink satin gown that the girl wore suited the cold little, and Lana wondered if she was perhaps all there.

Around her, other's fanned out. An elderly man dressed in finery and a bronze circlet hovered at the Queen's shoulder, and Lana quickly realised he must be the Prince Consort. A wide-bearthed woman knight surprised her, dressed in polished armour and the white cloak that signalled a King's or Queen's guard.

It was a grand enough welcome, but the Prince who she longed to meet was nowhere among them.

“Princess Arlana,” the Queen curtseyed in return after some long moments, “It seems my Prince has lost track of the time. He was out on a hunt,”

So a deer or boar was more important than the woman who would become his bride? All of the horror stories about the Bastard Prince came rushing back to her, and it was a battle to keep her face passive.

“No matter, I suppose there will be plenty of time to become aquainted,” she lied with a forced smile, “In the meantime, my party is road-weary, dirty and tired,”

“But of course, the castle is yours,” the Queen replied, and Lana wondered for a heartbeat if her smile too was forced, “Ser Woodhouse will show you and your Lord Knights to your chambers, and Lancel will take care of your party,”

“My thanks,” Arlana Kane curtseyed one last time, “Jane, come with me please,”

And she followed the old chamberlain to the apartments they had set aside for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rewrite of The Prince of Isperis.  
The work is not complete, but better planned so to be sustainable.


	3. Sterling

Sterling

It was peaceful near the mountains. He had found a place where the rock run so deep that farmer's could not plant and carpenters could not build. When winter came true, even here would be blanketed thick with snow, but now it lay close enough to sunlight that the stone warmed under his hands. Few people came this close for fear of avalanche or, for the superstitious, even goblins, but his horse Thunder was fast enough, and Kazak's hunting nose keen enough to avoid any real danger. He was not hiding, he insisted to himself, but then he wondered why he was here and not in the courtyard awaiting his Princess if that was the case, and why his heart clenched when he caught sight of the Golden Rider.

Lord Commander Raymond Gilette was gold all over, from his halo of hair to his eyes like melting toffees, to the guilded plate he'd had crafted on his ascention to Commander of the Kingsguard. He even rode a golden horse more times than enough, though he'd been known to take a dark destrier or snowy white courser when the need arose.

“I thought I'd find you here,” the Knight called out as he approached, “You missed her arrival,”

The Califian Princess. He'd seen her thumbnail portrait along with the letter and remembered her clear. Her sleek dark hair pulled back, her painted eyes staring out at him, her skin darker than any he might see in Isperis but for the odd merchant or traveler. He could not deny the Princess her beauty, but all the same he could not find it in himself to grow fond of the idea of her. He'd done that with Katya, and that had left him with nothing but a broken heart.

“Do you think she is beautiful?” he asked, “Everyone else does,”

“You know well I know little of that,” Ray replied, “But I know well enough of your mother's scorn to know she is displeased,”

Ser Raymond had never been one for empty courtesies and lies for the sake of keeping face, and Prince Sterling Archer had always respected him for it.

“Piss on mother's scorn,” he run a hand through Kazak's thick fur, the slobbering hound's presence making him brave, “I want nothing of this foreign Princess,”

“And if she has any sense, she'll want little of you,” Ray answered, and if it had been anyone else Sterling may have taken insult, “But you have a duty to your Queen, to your house, to your country and to your people,”

The Prince might have guessed the response before Ray had even opened his mouth. All of his life had been dictated and controlled by his _duty _and by his responsibility of crowned Prince, and he hadn't yet even inherited the throne! He had often dreamed of running from it. When the Lady Trinette had come to him, swollen with child, he'd thought of finding them a fast ship, sailing to far off lands and raising their child as a crofter or a blacksmith, but his Lady had declined and, on discovering his secret, his Queen mother took control in the only way she knew how – by force.

“I never wanted this,” Sterling confessed to the knight, feeling petulant even as he spoke, “I should have died a bastard,”

“Many Lords in this land and others would agree,” Ray nodded, “But as it is you were born a bastard, raised a prince and will die a King, should Gods be good. There is no running, not from this. You might run from everything else – the bastards you have fathered, the maidens you have disgraced – but not this,”

Sterling looked up at him. He knew he matched him for height when standing abreast, but he looked so much taller from atop his horse, as righteous and as strong as any fabled hero. All at once, he realised that the lord commander spoke true. Kazak regained his attention, nudging him with a wet nose then licking at his fingers until he scratched him behind the ears. He looked once more to the knight.

“I'd best not push mother's wrath any further,” he said, forcing a smile, “And I'm sure my Princess is eager to meet me,”

He bathed quick, his water scalding in contrast to his icy chambers. He had been born and grown in the North, and even he hadn't always the hardness for it. Ray had warned him that he'd only an hour until he was expected at the welcoming feast, but he still found the time to relax and think while he scrubbed the mountain grime from himself and Woodhouse set out his clothes. Her face swam before him, her eyes so open and innocent, and he fought to harden his heart. Katya sprung up beside her, so different yet beautiful the same. Blonde, blue-eyed, and far from innocent. He'd fallen in love with the sight of her, the taste of her kiss, the sound of her voice even with that Southron accent, and he thought she had fallen for all of him as well until she had abandoned him, heartbroken and lonely, to marry Prince Bartholemew in his stead. Somehow he knew that if he fell for Arlana the same, she would too crush his heart and return to Califa to marry another Prince or another Lord.

A timid knock brought his attention back to Woodhouse. He would not admit it to the man, but he had a great fondness for the chamberlain. In the bloom of his youth, when he had a full head of jet black hair and muscle on his arms, he had been like a father to the Prince. He would take care of his every need, play with him, teach him his reading and his numbers before Maester Krieger had come to take over his studies.

Looking at him now, frail and old and wasted from a decade's worth of unneeded opium, he looked less than a shadow of the man he had once been, and Sterling wondered how long it would be before his loyal servant left him too, though not by choice.

“Apologies Sire,” he even sounded frail, “But you have less than a quarter hour to be dressed,”

He would have liked nothing better than to lounge in the bronze tub for the entire night, but he knew it was not possible. He hauled himself from the tub, and indicated for Woodhouse to help him dress.

When he was done, and a looking glass held before him, Sterling was the perfect visage of a Prince. His doublet was soft leather dyed a deep blue, threaded silver on one side with the crowned roaring lion of House Archer. His legs were thick black wool, and his black leather boots reached to below his knee. They might have been mistaken for riding boots, if not for the pattern embossed all the way down. He was adorned with jewels that made him look regal as much as made him itch at his hands and neck – a heavy silver medallion on a long heavy chain, rubies and sapphires gleaming and glinting from silver bands on his fingers, a heavy iron circlet, inset in the centre with a single sapphire the size of a pigeon's egg.

“You make a grand sight, Sire,” Woodhouse said, and Pam was quick to agree when she arrived to escort him to the Great Hall.

She somehow looked bigger than usual in her new-made steel armour and crisp white cloak. Others might have been affronted to seek protection from a woman, but Sterling had fought beside Ser Pamela Poovey long enough to trust her with his life. He'd pick her readily over any of the Queensguard, perhaps even over Lord Commander Gilette himself.

They walked together, down the narrow spiral staircase of the Bronze Tower where Sterling had been housed since he was able to manage his own quarters, then across the inner bailey. Beyond the chatter of the guards on the wall, he could hear the steady stream of the moat below. In summer, the moat would dry and empty, but by autumn it was half filled with rain, and by deep winter it would be filled to the brim with melted snow. They were silent for most of the journey, until they had reached the main tower and Pam broke it.

“You should accept her,” she dared to say, “Her father's fleet is strong, and I fear I can smell war on the horizon,”

He smiled at that. One guard on the main gate, two on the inner – an empty moat for a part of the year, portcullises up and bridges down. He had never known Isperis to have anything but peace, though he had heard talk around the table of the war between his mother and the KGB.

“I am entirely serious, my Prince,” Pam insisted, “It was one thing to take Woden from a childless widow, but the Calderon pirates have made moves on Athena, and it's only a matter of time before he sets his sights North,”

“I wish luck to a summer man against a harsh Northern winter, and let Jakov worry about his own lands,” he answered, “But I suppose an alliance might work,”

“You never know,” the Knight lay a steel-clad hand on his shoulder, “You may grow to love her as you did the Lady Katya,”

Something poison fell on his tongue then, and he would have said something stupid and spiteful if only to put a stop to the ache in his heart, but then they were in the Great Hall and his mother's steel blue eyes were boring into him and his chance was gone.

“Prince Sterling Archer, First of His Name” Krieger announced, though his voice was near lost among the clangor of knives and the table chatter. Despite his best efforts, it seemed that the Prince was late after all. “Lord of Archport, the son of Queen Malory and heir to the lands of Isperis,”

He nodded to Pam as she veered off to join the rest of the Queensguard, barring Ser Raymond who watched him from below his mother's table, then held his head high as he strode the aisle towards the high table.

His mother sat central, on a small throne wrought of roses made of steel and crowned with a golden lion's head. Her face seemed made of the same steel, and he knew that he would suffer after the feast, out of the way of prying eyes. Beside her, the ward Cheryl Tunt spun a crabfork between her fingers, dressed in one of her wispy gowns that no-one else but an Eidubh Princess would wear this far north and as blank-eyed as always. On the other side, his Princess bride sat in conversation with a knight that must have been her own. At the sound of his name, she turned to look and Sterling, just for a heartbeat, forgot how to breathe. Her eyes were ocean pools, green on one step and blue in the next, looking down on him with an expression he could not read. Her lips were plump and made for kissing, the curves of her body emphasised by the cotton dress she wore. Lilac, striped in the middle with light gray, puffed sleeved and hooped at the skirt. He reached the table before he knew, offered a bow first to his mother then to the Princess before he moved to take his seat between them. Overtaken by her beauty, he took her hand in his and raised it to brush a kiss across her knuckles.

“Princess Arlana, it is a pleasure,” he said to her, “My apologies for missing your arrival, the mountains can seem like a timeless place,”

“Your mother said you were hunting,” she replied, “What have you brought back for me? Goat? Mountain lion?”

It took longer than it should have for the Prince to notice the glimmer in her eyes and realise it for the joke it was. He smiled.

“Why, Princess, I have brought you the company of Prince Sterling Archer,”


	4. Barry

Barry

“Prince Sterling is courting again,” Lady Thorne informed the council, “A bethrothal is planned between him and Princess Arlana Kane, the daughter of King Lemuel of Califa,”

Prince Bartholemew had little interest of the goings on of Isperis, ever since his first meeting with the Bastard Prince, but he clenched his jaw and listened.

“Forget Isperis!” Lord Leonard exploded, “What of this Gustavo Calderon?”

Leonard Trexler had been a King in his own right up until recently, the proud protector of Woden until the pirates stole it from under him. King Nikolai had given him lordship, lands and a place as his Hand, but it was not enough. Len had lost a pregnant wife in the raid, and his thirst for revenge was far stronger than his thirst for gold or power.

“Athena struggles against them,” admitted Ser Boris Gerod of the Kingsguard, “If they fall, Roman Cazaldo will march South, taking Quinestenn, Oldfort and even us under their power,”

“He speaks truth,” Rona Thorne nodded, “These pirates thirst for ultimate power. While Prince Roman pillages south, King Gustavo will march north, taking Oakheart and into Isperis,”

“He is no King!” King Nikolai announced, breaking his silence at last. His Uncle had been a mountain of muscle in his prime, but age had turned it to fat and turned his dark hair to gray. He was balding upon his head, but his walrus mustache bristled as bushy as ever. He was dressed in a dark green doublet, embroidered over the lest breast with a golden warhammer. “But even so, I fear my council is right. Something must be done,”

The King eyed his council in turn. Lord Leonard, balding the same though his muscle had outlasted the Kings, a thin groomed mustache over his lip. Rona Thorne, blonde and bashful at sight, but cunning and calculating beneath. Ser Boris, as big as a mountain and as stupid as one too in everything but the art of war. Kenneth Hinkins, hidden half behind a great beard and terrifying to behold if only for his piercing eyes, and George Spelvin, sleek and handsome and on his forth wife.

“Ser Boris, send as many men as you can to defend Athena,” the King commanded, “The rest, you will station along the Woden border to stave off any other raiders,”

He turned to Lady Rona next, “My Lady, we needs must know everything of this alliance with Califa. If it is at all possible for us to connect with King Lemuel or Queen Malory, it must be done,”

“Lord George, I will have need of your ships should the pirates make a hand for Bartholemew Bay,”

“They would be foolish to try, your grace, but you will have all you need,” George Spelvin bowed.

“And will we have the coin, Lord Kenneth?”

“We will for sure,” replied the Master of Coin in his slimy voice, “I will ensure it myself,”

“Very good. Dismissed – Barry, you stay!”

He stilled, dreading whichever task would fall to him. He could take Woden from the pirates with a few good men, he knew, but his Uncle had too little trust in him of late to hand him such glory.

“Uncle,” he bowed his head, once the frail and ancient Maester had shuffled from the room.

“You will go with Lady Rona,” King Nikolai said, in a voice that brokered no argument, “Sure enough we can't have the Queen or the Prince, but there are wealthy enough Ladies of the court who might suit you,”

“I'm already married,” he reminded his uncle, though the king barely acknowledged his young bride, “In the eyes of gods and men,”

He was never supposed to fall in love with Katya Kazanova, the kingdom's one true chance of forging an alliance with Isperis, but once he had there was no going back. In truth, it had been Prince Sterling's own doing. The Bastard Prince wounded him bad during that tournament, and disgusted by her betrothed's behavior, Katya had helped nurse him back to health with gentle touches and whispered prayers. King Nikolai had been furious when they had returned together to announce her broken engagement, and nothing short of livid in the following weeks when the Prince and his bride had sailed to Adria on a passing trading galley to say their vows.

“False gods and foreign men,” the King dismissed with a wave of his hand, “And Kazanova brings you nothing. Cheryl Tunt, Queen Malory's own ward, is the sole heir to Eidubh and the ancient Tunt fortune,”

Barry knew that well enough, along with the rest of the realm. In the glory days, the Tunt's had ruled an empire from their tiny island home, with boats bigger than any the Calderon pirates could dream of and piles gold bought by iron and blood. Nowadays, after being smashed back onto their island by Queen Malory's grandfather, Cecil Tunt sat in his keep hoarding his gold like some infant dragon while Cheryl sat in the Isperis court, daydreaming and likely under the influence of opium.

“For now,” Barry agreed, “But Lord Cecil married in Spring. Gods be good, his wife will grow him a strong son and then where would that leave the sister,”

“Obscenely rich,” King Nikolai's voice did not falter, but the rage was bubbling somewhere behind those dark eyes, “And as Princess Cheryl Dillon of the Kingdom of Gerod and Bartholemew, if you are as smart as you think you are,”

“I will not denounce my wife,” said Prince Bartholemew. He did think himself to be clever most of the time, but never when it came to his uncle, “I love her,”

“If you ever want to be King, you must learn that duty must come before everything else – even love,” finally, the rage was spilling into his voice, “You _will _go to Isperis to seek Lady Cheryl's hand, or you can take your whore back to Adria and live out your life in exile. Either way, your country has need of you elsewhere,”

“Adria was gorgeous,” Barry spat, “They say the sun dances for sixteen hours of the day, and when the sun finally sets the streets come alive with magic!”

But even as he turned on his heel to storm out, he knew in his deepest heart that he would be riding North come morning.

Prince Bartholemew had never considered himself to be a sentimental man. He hadn't cared much when King Nikolai had sent Framboise back home, once she had disgraced herself in Prince Sterling's bed. He'd barely even cried when his mother had died, and he'd been not much more than a boy then. Still, he'd called Bartholemew Bay home for almost two decades, and it didn't feel right leaving without a goodbye knowing that he might never return. His journey would take him along the Woden border, at the threat of pirate raiders, and its end would lead him into the jaws of danger. Prince Sterling's disdain for him was well known, especially since he had claimed Katya for his own, and even if he was able to win the duel, he could hardly kill a Prince within his own walls. Even Cheryl Tunt had raised venomous whispers with the mysterious death of her husband, of a black widow motivated by a sick joy rather than fortune.

His walk had taken him to the inner bailey, and he looked up at the Bloody Keep where it circled and loomed around him. It was an ugly castle, he thought, especially compared to the songs bards sung about the sprawling mountain paradise of Archport and the glass and marble splendor of Arakane, but it had been his castle. It _would _be his castle, in the end.

The courtyard in which he stood had been a ringing bustle of noise through the day – the slam of the blacksmith's hammer, the dull thuds of wooden practise swords meeting, the whistle of arrows as the soldiers held their contests and the roaring of a hundred voices. It would be warm too – from the sun beating down, from the mass of bodies, from the fires of the bellows. Now it was empty and silent and cold, and for some reason that planted dread in his heart.

He ought to give one last goodbye to his wife, he knew. Likely, she would be shipped halfway across the continent or the sea by the time Barry and his companions were even near Oldfort, and only the Gods knew when and if he'd find her again. Even so, his feet took him to the Maester's tower. Maester Benjamin was old and rigid and strict, but he'd developed a soft spot for the young orphaned prince, and that had luckily enough lasted into adulthood. Surely, he would be allowed in to see the ravens and the one white dove who had been his friends back in the days when they had been the only ones.

The Maester was abed when he came to the oak and iron door of his lopsided tower, but a young acolyte let him in with a tight smile and a nod that told him that the news of the argument had spread quick. He wondered first which spider had started spinning webs, then wondered if he had been the last to know. He walked on to the rookery, grabbed a handful of corn to draw the birds down from the rafters, then settled on the window ledge to watch the stars and make the most of the last southern warmth before he met the harsh of the North. It was true enough that his uncle had never been overly fond of him. He had only taken him as a ward because his mother had died, never intending for a fatherless boy to become his heir until he had lost two wives without producing a child of his own. He started from his daydream at a particularly loud squak, and turned in time to avoid a slap from a large black wing. He stepped back to let the bird swoop down onto the ledge, then silenced it with one last fistful of corn. His feathers were disjointed in places, telling of a long and hard journey, but Barry could see no other sign of injury. He did notice a scroll on his leg, that he carefully untied.

_King Nikolai Jakov _was written in neat script with green ink and, feeling guilty even as he did it, Barry let his curiosity win out and broke the unmarked seal. If his uncle would meddle in his affairs, he would in return. Comforting himself with the thought, he began to read and felt his stomach drop.

_My darling, _it read, and he feared that the King had found a bride young enough to produce an heir.

_It pains me to think we cannot be together as a family. I miss your embrace, the taste of your kiss and our pillow whispers. To think, your son might marry at last, and you can't even be there! I hope our worlds might collide soon enough, for I fear to put any more in writing._

_Sending all my love, always,_

_Your Queen_

His head spun faster than he'd felt it before, as the words swirled and the meaning slowly dripped into his mind. A son? A bastard alright, but the blood of a King and presumably a noble for her to be so bold as to call herself queen. A bastard who would soon be married and would soon have a child of his own. A line of succession, something Barry would have little hope of providing if Katya was torn away. A bastard... but who?

He pocketed the letter, thanked the raven with a gentle stroke on his head and was half-way across the bailey once more when the thought came to him in a strike.

Prince Sterling Archer, the bastard of a King and a Queen? There was no secret around Queen Malory's past, and whispers still though she had been married to Prince Ronald for the past few years. His uncle had seemed too strict and stubborn to take another woman, but it would explain how they had managed to bring the kingdoms back together after so much spilled blood and heartache. He would need solid proof, and the only place he would find it was in the North. Any chance of humouring the idea of running off with Katya would wait – he had a duty to his kingdom.


	5. Lana

Lana

She had come to find that everything came cold in the North, from the wind that rattled her shutters at night and the chill that lay constant in the air to the eyes of Queen Malory and the distance to her Prince. The strange lands had not welcomed her, and so she had found sanctuary in the library of the strange castle. It was not as large as the one in the Crystal Palace, but when she had lit a roaring fire in the hearth and burrowed under a thick fur cloak with her tales of dragons and the island princess, it almost felt like home.

She had almost reached the climax of the story – a spear through a dragon's heart and Eidubh's Princess sorrow and rage – when her knight Cyril tore her away from the glory and back to the reality of dying embers and the finger numbing cold.

“It's late, my Princess,” he said in way of an apology, “Jane wondered where you had gone,”

Her handmaiden was too fretful for her health at times. She was a dull and plain young girl, but Lana was fond of her all the same for her kindness and her hard work. It had been like a dagger in the back – another reminder that she was a stranger in a strange land – when she discovered that the Isperis staff had renamed her Scatterbrain and shared cruel japes behind her back. A word to her Prince would have it stopped, she knew, but first she would need to catch him for more than a heartbeat. Not for the first time, she wondered why her father would send her across the continent for a Prince that had little want of her.

“I couldn't sleep with so much to think upon,” she admitted, looking at her Knight. The lamplight aged him, highlighting the iron amongst the obsidian of his hair and the lines of worry writ across his face, “I thought the Dragon Princess of Eidubh might offer some inspiration,”

She tilted the book so that he could read the title on the cover.

“If only there was a dragon or two left spare,” he offered her a wry smile as he took a seat beside her. He somehow looked small in the silks and cotton of court, “It isn't like you to be fretful,”

He was right enough. Usually she would respond to difficulties with cool anger or calm perseverance, but neither of those routes would work for the problems she had found herself with.

“Who else but the Prince?” she allowed herself a sigh in the privacy of her knights confidence.

When at last the Prince had come to welcome her on her arrival day, he had been every bit a gentleman, charming and handsome. His sculpted face had pleased her, along with his intense blue eyes and mop of dark hair. Even under his velvets, she could tell that his body could have a pious maiden's knees shaking, and she was neither pious nor a maiden no matter how she acted it in noble company. He had smiled warm at her jokes, gifted her his own and promised his company but had since been sweating on the training fields or locked in his own solar.

“My sole duty here is to marry him, and yet I can't even capture his attention,” she pressed on, “I worry that he pines for another,”

And there were so many others for him to pine for; eager Trinette who had already gifted him with a son, Framboise who'd pleased men from Adria to the far-lands, the pretty maid Rita, the bandit Mercedes who he'd taken as a lover and a prisoner all at once. Names told in hushed whispers in the halls, names echoing a disturbing story of his past.

“He'd be a fool to pine for another next to you,” Cyril answered, sincere, “You know how to take control, take it,”

Her sleep was broken and restless, even after she had allowed Cyril to escort her to her chambers and Jane brush out her hair. Though she told herself she cared little of Prince Sterling's affections, she had a duty to her father and was not in the habit of disappointing him. She refused to return to Califa without victory.

She rose with the morning larks to write her note, which she pressed into Symin's hand to have delivered to her prince – an invitation to join her to break their fast. If no answer came, she would walk the halls until she found him.

She picked her clothes carefully. Jane had finally managed to have her clothes hung rather than folded into chests, and she had a good view of her purple silks and cloth-of-silver and brown furs. What would a true Northern Princess wear?

At last, she settled on a deep blue cotton dress overlain with a fur overcoat of dark gray. She cinched her waist with a belt of large silver medallions that matched the one on the chain draped around her neck, and decorated her wrists with silver cuffs and her fingers with silver bands inlaid with opals and sapphires. Jane braided her hair, teased it upwards in an elaborate style and covered it with a net strewn with opals. She imagined she felt how Princess Cordelia Tunt felt when they had crowned her the Queen of Eidubh.

Still, it came as a pleasant surprise when Symin led Prince Sterling into the room, the note held in his hand like a precious thing. Prince Sterling was dressed in powder blue and cream, and wore a sword on his waist as he was prone to do despite wearing court cloth and living in a land of peace.

“Good morning Princess,” he said with a small bow of his head, “I answer your summons gladly,”

Her heart dropped, and she wondered for a moment if she had offended him by demanding his presence within his own walls, but then a shadow of a grin flashed across his face and she realised that he had spoken in good humour. The Prince eased off his cloth-of-silver cloak and let Jane take it from his hands, then he crossed the room in three large strides and dropped down heavy across from her. She was used to nobles moving with a slow grace, and his change of pace was refreshing. When he turned into the light, she noticed the swell of purple growing across his left cheek. She fought the urge to reach out and touch it with gentle fingers, and nodded instead.

“What happened?” she asked, without meaning to, then cursed herself for prying.

He raised his hand gingerly to the bruise, as if it had been the first time he had noticed, or as if he had forgotten it was even there.

“I took a blow in a spar,” he answered with a small smile, “Ser Ray has never gone easy on me for my titles, nor should he,”

She had heard on the road that the Prince had often led his own armies against the few raiders and pirates that dared to step on Isperis land, and wondered if that was the reason he had been gone from her side for so long in the past weeks.

“They say that you are gallant and brave in battle,” she answered, glancing to his sword once more.

She felt stupid even as she said it, but she knew little of war and battle – those lessons had belonged to Aylwin.

He followed her stare to his blade this time, and drew it from it's scabbard with a gentleness she had not yet seen in him to lay it across the breakfast table. The blade itself shone golden in dawn's light.

“It's been wrought into the Califian style,” he explained, “I thought it was well suited to the occasion. The steel was mined in Arakane, then gifted to my grandfather who had it forged into a sword by the Isperian blacksmith of the time,”

“It's beautiful,” she heard herself say, her eyes lingering on the sparkling rubies inlain in the pommel.

“Those are ancient,” he ran a finger over the largest, set in the middle and rough around the edges, “They were brought from Oakheart in the Glory Age, a part of the crown my grandmother wore. Grandfather thought that way she could be with him whenever he went to war,”

Back in the Glory Age, as they were called around the realm, warring was all the kings ever seemed to play at. Though borders still stood now, alliances came more easily than rivalries and most of the realm knew peace from everything but the pirates and an odd raiding party. Back then, Califa, Woden, Isperis, the KGB and even Eidubh stood as proud nations who took slight easy and had, it seemed, unquenchable thirst for blood. She could not blame them entirely, for it would have been so easy to feel fear while dragons swooped overhead and goblins came rushing down from the mountain on anyone who dared to camp within its shadow. She shivered, glad to have been born when she was.

“Your family has such history,” said Princess Arlana, “But what of your own?”

That opened the floodgates, and the first real conversation she'd ever had with her prince followed easy enough. He'd been an only child, he told her, and his status had never meant a thing until he had began to play with other noble children, and even then he insisted that a quick scrap would sort out Trent Whitney and Richard Stratton before they were lords. When she told him of her childhood with Aylwin and how she'd at times resented him for being born a boy, thus taking her rights to Arakane, he listened with sympathy.

He told her about Thunder and the horses that had come before him over the years, and the hound Kazak that lumbered along at his heels more oft than not and she remembered the bright-feathered parrots that would sing back to her in the Glass Gardens, and boasted of Windrush's speed. He told her of his childhood, exaggerating at times she was sure when he told a story of climbing the largest mountain that loomed behind his home, of mud and stick swords. She spoke of Arakane with an ache in her heart, reminiscing of when she had learned to swim the ocean, learned to paint with all of the colours the East had on offer and the time she had perfectly sewed her own name-day gown. Noon rose around them in blazes of orange and red, and they spoke even as the servants cleared their dishes and their tea went cold in cups. It was Sterling who noticed the time first, standing from his chair with a sense of urgency.

“I'm needed at council,” he said in explaination, “But I'll be training the boys late afternoon, and it would be my pleasure to have you observe,”

She was almost bitter that their morning had to draw to an end, but her prince stole the feeling away with a gentle kiss on her brow and all was forgiven.


End file.
